Sunday, 30 November 2014

There were food shortages in Britain in WW I, but nothing like those in Germany and Austria.

"Price of Milk in Hungary.
The introduction of maximum prices for milk by the authorities Buda Pest have excited much apprehension in Vienna. The official price for a litre bottle of milk in Buda Pest is 56 hellers (5.6 pence), which is eight hellers more than the present prices in Vienna.

The maximum price in the Hungarian capital represents an advance of ten hellers (a penny), and is avowedly made to stimulate production and increase consignments of milk to the city. Of the 600,000 litres of milk daily consumed in Vienna, at least one-sixth comes from Hungary, consequently the Viennese fear that the higher prices there will tend to divert this milk to Buda Pest.

The situation is the more critical just now as the milk contracts with the farmers and peasants are made for a year from April 1, and agents from both capitals will be competing to secure new contracts.

According to Bohemian papers, Austria is about prohibit the expert of beer in the interests of the home consumers. Such breweries, however, as during the years 1911-12 and 1912-13 sent beer abroad to neutral European countries and to Austria's Allies, may still export, but those who supplied only enemy countries and America will be excluded.

This new prohibition will affect chiefly, and indeed almost exclusively, the Pilsener breweries, which export a large proportion of their output, while the other Austrian breweries have only 6 per cent. of the total exports.

The Pilsener breweries will be permitted to export 30 per cent. of their production, which is now only 40 per cent. of the original quantity, so that the new exports will amount to 12 per cent. of the output of normal years.

At Lemberg the High Court has forbidden the circulation of two Hebrew’ prayer-books, the "Sider Beis Jacob,” published in 1904, and another published in 1907, on the ground that they contain high treason. The Socialist press is asking why it took all these years for the authorities to find out the treasonable character the books.

Wood of all kinds is becoming very scarce and very dear in Austria. Ordinary soft woods have doubled in price, and fire wood has gone up nearly as much. Enormous quantities of wood have been used for military purposes, such as buildings, barracks, and hospitals, and even more in the reconstruction of the towns and villages destroyed in the war zone."
Daily Gazette for Middlesbrough - Thursday 30 March 1916, page 6.

It's odd how they didn't allow breweries who had exported to the Allies to export beer. Though I'm more surprised that they were exporting beer at all. The most impressive statistic is that Pilsner breweries were responsible for 94% of Austrian beer exports.

I'm really happy to find that figure for beer production. Down to just 40% of its pre-war level. Let's see how that compares with the situation in the UK:

Summary of changes in WW I

Duty

Standard barrels

Bulk barrels

Average
OG

Average
price

s.

d.

England & Wales

per pint

1914

7

9

36,057,913

37,558,767

1051.69

3d.

1915

23

0

33,099,000

34,736,000

1051.16

3d.

1916

23

0

30,292,000

32,110,000

1050.49

3d.

1917

24

0

26,626,000

30,163,000

1047.01

4d

1918

25

0

13,816,000

19,085,000

1038.25

4.5d

1919

50

0

12,925,000

23,264,000

1029.35

5d.

1920

79

0

25,115,000

35,047,000

1038.57

6d.

Sources:

The Brewers' Almanack 1928 pages 100 and 110.

Beer output fell between 1914 and 1916, but not by a ridiculous amount. Especially in terms of bulk barrels, i.e. the actual amount of beer. Though the standard barrel number indicates the reduction in materials used.

Drop in beer output

period

standard barrels

bulk barrels

1914 to 1916

15.99%

14.51%

1914 to 1917

26.16%

19.69%

But things quickly got much worse in Bohemia:

"ENEMY'S FOOD CRISIS. HOW ROUMANIAN INTERVENTION HAS REDUCED SUPPLIES.
The stoppage of Roumanian supplies has already caused an aggravation of the food shortage troubles both in Germany and Austria.

In Germany the allowance of butter per person has been reduced to eighty grammes (less than three ounces) per week. From the end of September there will be three meatless days per week instead of two.

Austria has already introduced three meatless days instead of two. The brewing beer will stopped in Austria. This will strike a destructive blow to the remaining prosperity of Pilsen. Bread rations will have to be reduced Germany and Austria."
Taunton Courier, and Western Advertiser - Wednesday 20 September 1916, page 1.

Brewing ground to a complete halt:

"All breweries in the beer producing town of Pilsen, Bohemia, have been closed owing to lack of supplies."
Newcastle Journal - Saturday 23 September 1916, page 4.

Beer might have ended up pretty thin and watery in Britain, but at least there was beer.

Saturday, 29 November 2014

This time it's a slightly different type of Pilsener - a rather terrifying Austrian piece of heavy artillery.

Because Pilsen wasn't only well-known for brewing beer, it was also home to the massive Skoda arms factory. It played a part in WW II as well. One of the main reasons Hitler wanted to get hold of Bohemia and Moravia was the Skoda arms works.

Surgeon-Major Lesghintseff, who is back from the great battle in Galicia, says that seven-eighths of the wounds were from shells. Half of these were from large-calibre shells, and the rest from field howitzers and field guns, including shrapnel shot.

"Bullets played no role," says this authority. "The rifle is the infantryman's toy. The infantryman does not fight. When the big guns have finished the fighting he occupies the trenches which they have won."

The effect the Austrian Skoda 42cm. (16.4 in.) guns, known as the "Pilseners,” is worse than the effect of the Krupp "Thick Berthas." The Skoda shells weigh 2,800 lb. (1 ton 5 cwt). Their normal trajectory is four and half miles high, and in soft ground they penetrate 20 feet before exploding. The explosion occurs two seconds after impact. The "Pilseners" are howitzers, and, except in diameter, do not resemble the Krupp 16in. mortars.

A "Pilsener" shell kills every one within 150 yards, and kills many who are further off. The mere pressure of gas breaks in the partitions and roofs of bomb-proof shelters. Scores of men who escape metal fragments, stones, and showers of earth ere killed, lacerated, or blinded by the pressure of the gas.

Men who are only a short distance away are torn asunder. The gas gets into the body cavities and expands, tearing the flesh asunder. Sometimes only the clothes are stripped off, leaving intact the boots. Of men close by not a fragment remains. The clothes disappear, and only small metal articles are found. If the shell is very near, the explosion melts rifle barrels as if they were struck by lightning. Men who disappear in such explosions are often reported missing, as there is no proof of their death."
Birmingham Daily Mail - Thursday 17 June 1915, page 6.

It sounds a truly terrifying weapon. This is what one looked like:

Those shells were enormous. It's no wonder they caused such terrible damage. They weren't even meant to be land weapons having been originally designed for naval batteries. 16.54 inch was even big for naval guns back then, with most battleships still fitted with 14 inch main armament.

It’s my last bit of a day in the US. I don’t feel too bad despite the late-night whisky session. Just as well, as I need to be up reasonably early for breakfast.

This isn’t one I want to miss. Steve and Marissa have promised me home-made bacon and sausage, black pudding, crumpets and English tea. Sounds like heaven to me. They’re making me feel right at home. It's one of the best meals of my trip.

Dolores would love a garden as large as their 1.25 acres. That’s big enough to count as a farm here in Holland. Being that far away from neighbours does make it eerily quiet.

Breakfast done it’s time to go to the airport. Don’t want to cut things too fine. It’s another beautifully sunny day as Steve drives me along the motorway.

Once I’ve checked in my bag, toiled through security and snapped up some duty free, I park my arse at the closest bar to my gate. As usual, everyone around is in a chatty mood. I get a double Jack Daniels with a side of Deschutes Porter.

There’s the Norwegian bloke going back for his father’s funeral. He doesn’t look that upset: “He was 93. His passing wasn’t exactly unexpected.” And a young American woman, who, it turns out, is on the Amsterdam flight, too. She gets a text message from Delta: the flight will be leaving 17 minutes earlier than scheduled. Never had that happen to me before. Just as well I was sitting next to her.

I’ve had some interesting conversations in airport bars recently. And received some good advice about long flights: take your own food, get to sleep as quickly as possible, have a few drinks before getting on the plane. OK, I didn’t need to be told that last one.

I pick up some sushi for the flight. At least I’ll have something resembling food to nourish me.

The flight is as exciting as any overnight international flight. Boozed and sushied, I doze reasonably well.

Thankfully my bag appears quickly. I’m soon in a taxi heading for home. After a quick shower and change of clothes, I get the bus to work. What a fun day this will be.

I’ve an early start. A very early start. I’m taking the train to Seattle and it leaves at 6.30 am.

But, as it’s an international train, I need to be at the station an hour before departure. I ask for a 4.15 am wake-up call.

I buy myself a sandwich, drink and bag of crisps. That’ll do as breakfast. I get a Canadian history magazine for Andrew as well.

Once through US immigration, I settle into my assigned seat. It’s still dark when we pull out of the station. It takes longer than I anticipated – about two hours – until we reach the US border. Just before we get there, I spot two bald eagles sitting in a tree by the trackside.

At the border, we’re told to remain in our seats while border guards come around the train to check passports and collect our customs declaration forms. It doesn’t take long – not more than 15 minutes.

The train mostly hugs the coast, a vista of wooded hills and mirror-calm water slowly unfolding beyond the window. Occasionally the tracks dart inland, across flat, fertile plains of farmland. Its one of the most scenic train rides I’ve had in a while.

We get to King Street station on time and Jim Jamison is there to collect me. I’ve an event in his brewery, Foggy Noggin, in Bothell this evening.

“Do you want to get some lunch?” He asks.

My sandwich has long since worn off: “Sure.”

We go a place just around the corner, an Irish pub called Fado. I order a Lagunitas IPA and corned beef hash. Both are rather pleasant. Though the IPA comes in a jam jar. A Lagunitas-branded jam jar. Not quite sure why they serve beer in things like this. What’s wrong with a proper glass?

I ask Jim if we can stop by a supermarket. “I need to get cookie mix and Kool Aid for my son.” Jim is slightly bemused by Alexei’s request.

When we’re at the checkout the woman in front of us asks if we’re getting the Kool Aid to dye hair. “Four packets of the Dark Cherry in boiling water. That’s how I dyed this.” She says, pointed to a red highlight. Urm – should Alexei really be ingesting something that dyes hair like that?

Jim has one of the oddest breweries I’ve come across. Somehow he’s got permission to have a brewery and tasting room at his residential address. The fact that he has a 2.5 acre plot probably helps. But it’s still on a very quiet residential street.

Jim’s daughter is pulling beers for a few punters in the tasting room – it’s a double garage, really – and when we go to the brewery in the back garden his son Matt is brewing. It’s very much a family business. It's a tiny setup - just half a barrel, which is about as small as a commercial brewery can be. I've seen bigger home brew systems.

The plan is for me to hang around the bar to chat and sign books for a few hours. Later, for the event itself, I’ll be talking about each of the eight recipes from my book Jim has brewed. I get stuck into his Dark Mild in the meantime.

There’s a steady enough stream of punters, quite a few of whom have my book and some of the self-published ones) for me to sign. It’s no hardship for me to scribble a few illegible lines and chat a while. I really do enjoy meeting my readers. I hope it’s mutual.

I have a fascinating chat with a geologist. “Geology is just as bad as beer for misinformation.” He informs me. And there I was thinking it was an objective science. He has some scary stories about exploring abandoned mines. Sounds like a good way of getting yourself killed. Or worse, buried alive.

Steve Nolan and his wife Marissa turn up. He’s an English expat who lives on the same street. In fact, that’s where I’ll be staying tonight as he’s kindly offered to put me up. They’ll also be providing some of the food – home-made pork pies and sausage rolls – for tonight’s event.

At four everyone is cleared out and the garage door closes. Which is a relief as I was starting to freeze my grillox off. It’s unseasonably cold. Bloody arctic vortex. At least it isn’t raining. That’s what it would usually be doing at this time of year, evidently.

The few books I have left are soon gone. At least I won't be carrying any home with me. But I regret not having brought more.

Kickoff is 6 pm. It’s a relatively small crowd – the size of the room dictates that – but an enthusiastic and knowledgeable one. Jim has brewed four pairs of beers – two beers in the same of similar styles from different periods – which we sample together.

Scotch Ale
1933 Younger No. 3 Pale
1879 Younger No. 3

Mild Ale
1950 Whitbread Best Ale
1868 Tetley XX

Porter
1886 Barclay Perkins Hhd
1821 Barclay PerkinsTT

Russian Stout
1941 Barclay Perkins IBS
1924 Barclay Perkins IBS Ex

I explain what the differences are between the beers and why the style changed over time. And lots of other random beer history stuff. It’s more tangent than arc this time.

In all, I‘m on for around two hours, which is knackering. Even I get fed up of listening to myself talk eventually. I think I’ve educated and entertained the audience a little.

Jim and his family, me and the Nolans stay on after kicking everyone out for more beer and more talking. After a while I forget how exhausted I am. Maybe because I’ve finally time to drink some beer.

It ends up being very late. I stay up talking to Steve and drinking Lapghroaig until after 3 am. By which time I’ve been up almost 24 hours. I honestly don’t know how I do it. I just know it’s been a really fun day. One of the best of the trip.

Wednesday, 26 November 2014

The season of gluttony and excess is almost upon us - time for my December-only, different every year, Yule Logs!!

Yes, I know it isn't quite December. I was trying to be ahead of the game this year. It was a dreadful rush last time, with Andrew nagging in my ear: "Daaad, just finish it. Don't have another Abt, get on with it. It won't be ready until January at this rate."

I hope the five extra days will boost sales into triple digits*. For anyone wanting to make fortune (in the unlikely event of me being collectable at some point), this is the book to invest in. My set will be Dolores's widow's pension. The illegible 2012 edition - I've the only copy - should see both kids through college.

Ramble, wander, ramble. You can tell I've already broken the seal on the floor (I'd call it my beer cellar, but that would be pretentious and not strictly true), the words are tumbling out like rats from a sewer. I'm supposed to be convincing you to buy another of my wordless books.

It's odd that, as someone who thinks he knows his way around a sentence, two of the books I'm most proud of contain none. Sentences, I mean. And precious few words.

Yule Logs!!, my annual tribute to Norse responsible consumption, has a total of 249 words. (I said to Dolores: "My payment per word has just shot up. You won't believe how much I getting for this book.") I'm now going to bollox that up by giving them away for free:

The right of Ronald Pattinson to be identified as the author of his work has been asserted by him in
accordance with the

COPYRIGHT, DESIGNS AND PATENTS ACT OF 1988

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed upon the subsequent purchaser.

I've arranged to meet Tak pretty early - 09:30. Just as well I didn't get hammered yesterday. We're going to do a small brew on a tiny pilot system at Parallel 49.

The view from my bed is incredible. I sort of wish I had more time just lounging around in my suite, it's so nice. See what you think of the view:

Our first call is a food truck for breakfast. As you can see, it's a beautiful sunny day again. Everyone keeps telling me how untypical it as for this time of year. I'm not complaining.

Fed we head for Steamworks, a brewpub where Tak worked until recently. As it's not yet open, we enter through the back.

The brewery is in the basement, just about touching distance from the nearest tables. I guess they have to be areful not to accidentally scald any diners. I get a quick tour of the cramped equipment then a chance to sample some of the beers. Tak meanwhile loads up with ingredients for our brew later that day.

While he's busy collecting the malt and hops, I watch Scotland vs. Ireland a little. Who do I want to win? Difficult one that. I'll get back to you later.

We take a bus over to where currently works, Parallel 49 Brewing. It's a good bit bigger than any of the breweries I've seen so far in Vancouver. Bigger than any on the whole trip. It covers several buildings, all crammed full of stuff, be it brewhouse, fermenters, packaging equipment or stock. It's hard to believe it's only a few years old.

The tour takes longer than most I've done. Logical enough, as it's so big. Sure enough there are both oak barrels and cute little metal firkins.

We dive into the tasting room for a beer or two. They've dead impressive counter-pressure growler fillers. It's doing a brisk trade in growlers and bottles.

It's cask day and I'm asked to tap the barrel. I'm slightly reluctant remembering the incident with a 10-litre barrel of Schumacher Alt in our old flat. I didn't get the tap properly in and sprayed our living room with beer. After that, I was only allowed to tap barrels in the bath. It works fine this time, thankfully.

The half-barrel pilot plant has only just been delivered and the manufacturer is helping to assemble it and explain how it works. It's incredibly compact. I could easily fit it into my flat. Which starts me daydreaming. Until I imagine Dolore's reaction to me turning up with $3,000-odd worth of brewing equipment. No way that will fly.

It's got a bit late to brew. We decide to drop by the nearby Storm Brewing for a quick beer then to get something to eat. It's a good idea to eat at least two meals a day, I've realised.

I've been around a few breweries in my life. But never one like Storm. I'm told the owner built it himself. I can believe that. It looks like a pile of scrap metal. So ramshackle that I'm shocked when I taste the beer. Pretty good. How on earth can he brew in here? The "tasting room" is really just the space between the scrap.

The owner is as characterful as his brewery. We chat a little and he gives us some distilled thing. Not quite sure what it is, but it warms me nicely for the upcoming journey.

It takes a while to flag down a cab. Making me appreciate that final warming drink. We're headed for an English-style pub. But it's packed. No chance of finding a seat. Instead we go to one of the Japanese restaurants nearby. The food is outstanding. The best of the whole trip.

The day ends with a Laphroaig eye-closer and a dreamy view over the bay.

Tuesday, 25 November 2014

My flight is quite early, at 10.30 am. Thankfully the airport isn’t as far out of town as in Denver. Twenty minutes is all I need to get there.

I’ve got TSA pre again. Yippee! Not that I’m complaining, but I still wonder why. Is it a lottery or is there some sort of rational procedure?

I’m doing the eating brekkie close to the gate thing again. This time at a brewery-owned pub: Rogue Ales Public House. But I’m foregoing my usual side of Jack Daniels. I don’t even have a beer. The relatively early hour isn’t the only reason. I’m not feeling too great. Too many strong beers over too long a period yesterday.

Breakfast is a standard two eggs and bacon-centred dish. Bacon is exactly what I need at a time like this. And lots of coffee. Lots and lots.

The weather has turned vile: cold, windy and a little snow. Great. I’ll be making the hop to Vancouver in a little propeller aircraft which means I have to walk over the tarmac. It isn’t pleasant.

For the first half of the journey, cloud veils the ground. It suddenly clears and a knife-sharp view of the coastal plain, backed by the Cascade Mountains, emerges. For once I’ve a window seat and I snap merrily away. As we near Vancouver, clumps of timber clot every waterway. Never seen that before.

The airport is fairly central and I’m soon at my hotel, Auberge Vancouver. It looks very posh. When I open my room door, my flabber is once again gasted: I’ve got another suite. Even nicer than the last in Denver, with its ridiculous views of the harbour and city. And there’s my box of books sitting on the counter. What more could I ask for?

My talk isn’t until 7 pm but Jeff Longland, one of the home brewers who helped organise it, is picking me up at 1 pm. We’re visiting a few breweries before kickoff.

We head for a part of town that used to be called Brewery Creek and is once again home to several breweries. We start at Main Street Brewing which, appropriately enough, is housed in a former brewery building.

The tasting room is simple, but functional: plain white walls and wooden tables with a bar area separating it from the brewery. It looks brand new, which in pretty much is, having been open less than a year. I'm excited to see four beer engines. (It's sad what gets you excited at my age. I found some fascinating turnips yesterday.) I opt for a Sessional IPA from one of them. I’m not making the same mistake as yesterday: too strong for too long.

The hate shit-balls thrown at Session IPA baffle me. Tasty beers you can enjoy drinking without fear of permanent brain damage. I'm as big a pisshead as the next bloke. And he's Josef Stalin. (Or is it Winston Churchill? I often get those two confused.) But sometimes a change of pace is a good idea. Or a liver transplant.

We have a quick tour of the brewery, which is shinily impressive and was made not far away. They’ve already had to buy more fermenters to keep pace with demand. No oak barrels this time but lots of lovely new firkins. I'd take one home with me, but it wouldn't fit in my bag.

A few more people turn up, including Tak who’s recently started brewing at Parallel 49, the town’s biggest brewery. After Molson.

We’re soon heading down the road to Brassneck, which is only a few blocks away. It’s quite a different sort of place, though also quite new at just about a year old. The tasting room is very much about growler fills, which make up a big chunk of sales. There is no bottling.

Seating is at the rear, a separated from the brewery by a collage wall of scrap wood. Great look.

In the brewery at the side and rear, things are much more cramped than up the road. And it isn’t filled – though filled it is – with the usual stainless kit. They’re three open fermenters and a wooden vat. Dead cool. I’ve seen neither in a North American brewery before.

The odd firkin lazes between the fermenters. In the cold room there’s one filled with 1987 Boddington’s ELM and another with 1923 Courage Stout. Wonder where they got those recipes?

Before trawling up at The Cobalt, where I'm eventing, we drop by Pizzeria Farina, conveniently located right next door. It’s a classy and simple, pizza joint. Not bad pizza at all. And they sell decent beer. What more could you ask?

The Cobalt is an old hotel with a colourful past, having long been home to "exotic" entertainment. It's now a grungy pub/music venue. It reminds me a bit of the Esplanade in St. Kilda, though without the glue-like residue masquerading as a carpet.

The event is in a side room called the Boxcar. It doesn't look quite finished. And isn't heated. On the upside, there is a screen and a projector, which is all I need. And three pins of beer. Two versions of Barclay Perkins East India Porter and one of Boddington's ELM.

When it's time for me to do my talking thing there's a pretty good crowd - 60 or 70 - which packs the place out. It's an easy talk to give. I've done it a few times before. And I wrote it out of my head. I bounce off on a couple of tangents not really part of the talk as written. I usually do that, when I have time. I've a stack of good beer-history stories.

A few of us continue on to the Alibi Room for more beer and a bite to eat. I'm surpised that my hotel is close enough to walk to. Which is what I do when they throw us out.

A Laphroaig is again my late-night travelling companion to the land of dreams.

It’s another leisurely start to the day. I quick continental breakfast downstairs followed by some lazing around my hotel room. I’m such a slob.

I’ve arranged to meet David Hauslein in the early afternoon at BeerMongers. It’s a combined bottle shop and bar in a light industrial building. David’s already there when I arrive and recognizes me. Maybe it’s the box of books I’m carrying. We cosy up to the bar and set about the serious task of getting some peeve down our necks.

It’s not a huge place. A few tables, some seats at the bar and fridges full of beer lining the walls. A smattering of customers here and there. Today’s event – at Hair of the Dog – isn’t until 4 pm, leaving me time for a decent session beforehand. Possibly too much time.

On the TV Holland are playing Mexico – and losing. Everyone is a little bemused at why I’m so happy Holland are getting stuffed. I’d even want them to lose if they were playing Arsenal, and that’s saying something. Because, to quote Terry Collier, “I hate Arsenal”.

After a couple of hours of beer and beery chat, David drives me over to Hair of the Dog. Where Alan Sprints, who’s organised the event, is waiting for me. It’s another industrial type building, half of which is dedicated to the tasting room, the other half to the brewery.

Alan gives me a spin around the shiny thing room. Though it’s not as full of those things as many breweries I’ve been to recently. No, here there are loads of wooden things. Quite a large number of oak barrels, most of which seem to be filled with one form or other of Fred.

There’s a wide variety of barrels, all around hogshead size. What look like second-hand wine or bourbon barrels, Aardbeg ones from Islay and even brand new ones stamped with the brewery’s logo. Barrel-ageing is obviously a big deal here. And by here I mean both Hair of the Dog and the USA.

Snuggling up to the oak casks are piles of dull and dented golden gate kegs in a couple of sizes. I’ve seen a lot of them this trip. I suspect that they’re being used as firkin substitutes.

All but the Blue Dot are from my book. Which I’ve started selling even before my short, impromptu talk.

It’s another decent-sized crowd and they seem to enjoy my historical blether. Not sure how long it lasts again. I can keep on going for hours if no-one stops me. I love the chance of speaking uninterrupted. I rarely get that at home.

I shift most of the books I brought. It’s a nightmare estimating how many to bring. I had to order an emergency extra box to be delivered to Vancouver. Took a bit of a hit on the shipping cost, but that’s better than running out of books with a couple of events still to go.

I hang around for a while to chat and drink. Obviously the latter. When else will I get a chance to drink KKK? I never dreamt anyone would make a commercial beer called that.

Things are getting blurry. At some point we had back to the city centre, to Bailey’s Taproom. I’m beginning to regret my early start. I polished off two bombers in my hotel before setting out. That may have been a mistake.

I suppose I walk home. It’s not far.

No need of a Laphroaig eye-closer tonight.

Tomorrow I’ve a short flight to Vancouver. Hope I remember to wake up.

Today’s flight is a little later, almost noon. But, the airport being miles away, I need to get up reasonably early. If only to catch breakfast in the hotel, which is free. No need to eat at the gate, which also saves time.

It takes me a while to find the United check in. Which is odd as Denver is one of their major hubs. Somehow I’ve missed a whole long row of bag drop offs. I blame the cold. In turns my brain to that thing that’s sort of ice and sort of water. What’s it called? . . . . . Slush, that’s it.

I’ve got something called TSA pre. It means a slightly less humiliating security experience. You don’t have to strip off quite as many pieces of clothing and disassemble your baggage. No idea why I got it, but I’m not complaining. Security checks irritate the arse off me.

With an hour or so to strangle, dismember and bury in a forest before boarding, I hunker down at the closest bar. It’s called Pour La France! and has a weird French theme. You’d never have guessed from the name.

“Double Jack Daniels, straight up.”

The bar is fringed with the like-minded. Loading spirits before boarding.

Airport bars are remarkably sociable. Knowing you’ll part soon and never meet again, why not take a punt on a chat? I don’t indulge myself this time, but watch others strike up conversations and smoke them to the fag end.

I mosey over to my gate at boarding time. Remarkably, my United flight is again on time. On my last book-flogging trip every single one was late. One very late.

This flight isn’t total sardine time, but still pretty full. I indulge in a couple of whiskies. There’s no in-flight entertainment: how else can I entertain myself in-flight?

My bag thunks onto the belt pretty promptly. Before I know it I’m cabbed and hotel-bound.

As the taxi crosses the Willamette River into downtown, I notice something odd. Portland looks like a city. A proper city, with shops and stuff. And those fleshy mammally, two-legged things I like chatting with. Human beings, that’s the word. I’m liking Portland already.

We pass a city square lined with ethnic food trucks. I’ve fallen asleep and this is all just a wonderful dream. Isn’t it?

Bags dropped, I head for a nearby shop to get water. And in this case, beer, too, as Oregon doesn’t have stupid laws. For a corner shop, the beer selection isn’t bad. The prices are a shock. In New Jersey, bombers started at $6 or $7, heading north into crazy territory, before reaching totally fucking crazy do you think I’m a complete fucking idiot land. Here I can pick one up for under $3. Robbing New Jersey bastards.

There’s a Deschutes brewpub just a few blocks away. I don’t feel like going far because it’s dead windy. On the way there I bump into a massive book shop, Powell's City of Books. It covers a whole city block. Another sign this is a cool city.

I slip in and search for the beer section. Easier said than done. The place is meganormous. But not particularly well signposted. After a few minutes of wandering I find it. Not bad at all. A stack of beer books. I’d give you a number, but do you think I’m the sort of sick obsessive that counts everything? *

Deschutes is pretty full, but I’m able to get a seat at the bar. Oh, look – they’ve got Fresh Squeezed IPA on cask. No long deliberation this time. It’s rather nice, in a citrusy US sort of way. And a bit too drinkable. Before I know it my first pint is almost gone. Just as well it’s only 6.4% ABV.

They’re missing a trick, many US brewers and publicans. People drink well-kept cask more quickly than keg beer. And drink more of it. I’d be trying to push it to boost sales volumes.

Though I notice a reassuring number of casks when I take the obligatory snaps of the shiny things**. It’s a recurring theme in breweries I’m visiting. As with oak barrels, most have some. Maybe I was a bit hasty is saying they were missing the barge.

I order an Elk burger. Never had Elk before. It’s also rather nice.

Three pints of Fresh Squeezed disappear in 40 minutes. No greater compliment than that from me. I'd happily drink another three. Which is one of the reasons I leave. Plus I’d like to visit more than one brewery today. Gotta keep to my quota.

Fat Head's Brewery is just a few blocks away. It’s a bit of an industrial barn with a pretty decent-sized brewery behind glass.

Buuut . . . . . they’ve a cask Stout. A Julie Andrews (or is it John Coltrane?) of a beer for me. It’s quite nice. Did I ever tell you of my youthful dreams of cask-conditioned Guinness Extra Stout? Not whimsical musings, things that pinged around my brain whilst sleeping.